


Were You Listening?

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [27]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, POV Alternating, accidental love confession, brief snek Crowley, just soft!!, just some simple stupidity to brighten your day dears!, not even a drop of angst!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Aziraphale practices confessing his love to Crowley. Crowley overhears.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 35
Kudos: 147
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Were You Listening?

**Author's Note:**

> For Valentine’s Day, I decided to go real simple and do a classic love confession/first kiss story that has nothing to do with the holiday in question. Inspired by the scene where Aziraphale is practicing what he’ll say to Gabriel in episode 3.  
> Happy Valentine’s Day! This not just a day for romance, this is a day for all kinds of love, so remind a friend that you love them. <3

“Good evening, Demon Crowley of Hell.”

The bookshop was quiet.

Aziraphale squinted at the wall sconces and felt his stiff smile fall. “No, no, don’t call him a _demon_ straight out,” he scolded himself, fingertips tapping together. “That would be _rude.”_ He crossed back over to the sofa, glaring impotently at the obvious dip in the cushions, a sign of decades of wear. His chest did something squiggly and uncomfortable.

“Good day to you, ex-hereditary enemy of mine!” he exclaimed, over-bright. “Erm…old chap! F-Friend! Bullocks.” Aziraphale’s arms fell to his sides as he looked imploring at the shadow-crossed, cobweb-infested ceiling. The ceiling didn’t add anything helpful, as was its wont.

Aziraphale had been performing this charade for upwards of an hour now, not that anyone was counting. Even the grandfather clock had the decency to stay quiet as the fretful angel did his darndest to wear holes through his already-threadbare rugs, chanting various greetings, declarations, and meaningless babble. Whether it had been at all a productive hour was quite up for debate.

For Aziraphale was _practicing._

At this rate, he ought to be capable of actually “performing” in approximately an additional six thousand years.

“It-It has come to my attention – no, no, that’s not right at all,” Aziraphale bemoaned, running both hands over his face and continuing from his post by the sofa over to his computer. The screen lit up at his approach, as the angel had never learned how to turn it on and assumed it had something to do with proximity. He paid it no mind.

Taking a deep breath, he centred himself. He would get this right, he just needed to try again. His face split into a manic grin with wide eyes and he spluttered, heart chattering with nerves. “I-I believe that this conversation may, perhaps, be – be overdue, a touch. There are, ah, feelings had by…certain…persons…which are – are relevant to current, erm, circumstances. Had by me. Toward you.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered. He’d never been good at confrontation of any sort.

He wondered if he should simply quit now and try again in a century or two, when he had more time to build up the courage.

Crowley was aware that they didn’t have any plans that day, but he’d been skittish in the months since their freedom was tentatively attained. So, when he appeared at the front door of the bookshop and breezed in, one hand against the locked knob and the other tapping a thumb across his phone screen, he was at least marginally aware that he was going to come across as extremely desperate if he kept doing this every other day. Oh, well.

“Hey, angel,” he said without looking up, his thin, black maxi skirt keeping his swagger to rather shorter steps than usual. “Did you know _Pokémon Go_ is still a thing? Would’a thought it’d be dead by now.” He shut the door behind him blindly. “There’s a Houndoom in here somewhere, by the way. Not that you know what that means.”

When he was met with silence, Crowley finally looked up and pocketed the device (just because Crowley had inadvertently begun the trend of non-functioning pockets didn’t mean he had to suffer the consequences of their inanity). It didn’t surprise him to see the front room empty, considering this was outside of Aziraphale’s usual operating hours – if he could be said to have such a thing. There was also Aziraphale’s tendency to forget about the inconsequential details of existence, such as the passage of time, when deep in an especially enthralling novel.

So, Crowley continued to the backroom, opening his mouth to call out again, and-

“You – you really are very, erm, _important_ to me,” Aziraphale’s voice came, slightly muffled from behind tarnished glass cabinets and book towers and enough wall to block him from Crowley’s sight. The demon paused, one foot softly falling to the ground, and an eyebrow ticked up as Aziraphale continued.

“Th-That is to say, we know each other rather well, don’t we? Yes, of course, we do, and so it seems imprudent to continue to hide – not that I was lying, mind you. But there is something you ought to know which is – ah, possibly pertinent?” Crowley heard the softest of sighs and blinked slowly behind the sunglasses.

Though certain unnamed someones had before argued that Crowley was, deep down, a good person, and possibly even a nice one, some stereotypical things were simply true, and one of these was that demons rarely hesitated to indulge in the occasional vice and social _faux pau._ Eavesdropping on the conversation of one’s nearest friend, with either a silent visitor or perhaps someone over the phone, should have definitely been too much of a betrayal of trust, but…curiosity killed the snake, or something.

So, with another slow blink, Crowley stepped back slightly into the shadows, listening carefully and fully prepared to tease Aziraphale later about whatever conversation this was.

Soft creaks in the floorboards told Crowley that Aziraphale was moving about. He coughed daintily, causing Crowley to grin slightly, before speaking again. “Crowley,” he said, causing the demon in question to jolt, “I would like to tell you something and for you to listen. I-I am hopeful it is something you – you _want_ to hear, but do let me know if you, erm, feel otherwise, and I shall hasten to, er, discontinue.”

Crowley’s brows furrowed, mouth falling open slightly. On second thought, uh, maybe he definitely should not be here or anywhere near here. But he was also definitely probably not leaving. This sounded like-

“I…I…oh, God.” Aziraphale mumbled something too quiet to hear, before saying, in a wobbly voice, “Crowley, the truth is that I am…in love with you.”

Crowley’s brain went silent.

Aziraphale let out a long breath, gaze falling to his folded hands with a defeatist air. “No, that won’t do. That’s far too forward…”

A resounding crash from the front room distracted him, and he quickly stood and raced out, mentally preparing himself for another visit from those mafia ruffians that visited earlier that week. He thought he’d made himself perfectly clear at the time, but perhaps additional words were required.

Instead, he was met with the view of a hissing coil of black snake, tangled in a mass of wrinkled, creased, and scattered books in a heap on the floor. The snake writhed and twisted in a way that was indicative of trying to escape a knot that wasn’t there.

“My – my…” Aziraphale stammered. “My _books!”_

The snake – Crowley – stopped moving at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice and tucked his head under a larger coil.

“Oh, you _dastardly_ thing!” the angel cried, crouching on the floor to gather the books nearest him into orderly piles. He picked up a mangled volume and tutted at the mark across the cover. “Oh, look what you’ve done to _Dorian Gray!_ This is absolutely _intolerable.”_ He fixed the serpent with a scowl, scanning scales for yellow eyes. “Crowley, do you care to explain yourself?”

After a long pause, the coils contracted into limbs and black clothing and red hair. His skirt was tangled up by his knees and the sunglasses were missing, revealing Crowley’s wide, serpentine pupils, which stared at him silently, mouth agape.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, eyebrows low.

Crowley lifted a shaky hand and snapped, all the books flying in a flurry of parchment and obedience to return to their place, as pristinely well-loved as ever. “Um,” Crowley said.

When nothing else came, Aziraphale stood with a grunt, extending a hand to help Crowley off the floor. “Don’t think I’ll forgive you just because you’ve fixed it,” he said sternly, though he could already feel his expression softening. He was never truly upset to see Crowley, after all, and he _had_ fixed them. “I’ll _always_ know these books were miracled, now.”

Crowley, instead of answering with some quip, stared at the extended hand for a long moment before carefully accepting it and letting Aziraphale tug him to his feet.

“Well?” Aziraphale pressed. “Is there a reason you’ve manifested yourself in my bookshop and disturbed my priceless and _immaculate_ organizational system?”

Crowley continued to stare at him. Slowly, he opened his mouth, but still said nothing at all.

Concern overrode annoyance. “Crowley, are you alright? You’re acting like a human with a concussion.” Aziraphale reached out a hand and rifled vaguely through Crowley’s short locks, fairly certain there was supposed to be bump or bruise or something. “Can demons get concussions, do you suppose?”

With a slight stumble, Crowley pulled back from Aziraphale’s hand, face flaming. Aziraphale had never seen him so red. “Oh dear, do you have a fever?” He was pretty sure demons weren’t supposed to be able to get concussions _or_ fevers.

“Er,” Crowley attempted, the very height of eloquence. “’M fine, angel. Don’t fuss. ‘S nothing.”

“Come, now. Do you really expect me to believe that, truly?”

Crowley made a few nonsensical grunts.

“Oh, really, do tell. How fascinating.”

The demon scowled at him. “Shut it.”

Aziraphale huffed, but ultimately conceded with a deep sigh. There was no getting the snake to budge, sometimes. The redness in his face was fading already, so maybe nothing was really wrong. “Well enough, my dear. If you won’t explain that, then at least tell me why you’re here.”

Crowley shrugged, shoving his hands into the skirt pockets. “Was just…ya know…came by a bit ago and heard you talking, and was, uh…”

Aziraphale gasped, a hand flying to his chest. “You were _eaves_ dropping on me!”

“Well, I-“

“I can’t believe you!” he exclaimed. “Waltzing in here and – and what? Standing about, listening to me…me…ah…” In contrast to Crowley, Aziraphale’s face lost all colour, and he regarded his companion with wide, horrified eyes. Crowley – he had _heard?_ Oh, dear. A long pause elapsed before Aziraphale managed to say, in a small voice, “W-What, exactly, did you hear?”

Crowley swallowed visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “…Things?”

“Things, such as…?”

“Er. Stuff.”

“Ah.”

“Mmm.”

“So, you heard me say that…that I…”

“Mmm hmm,” Crowley squeaked.

Aziraphale’s heart sank, and he blinked quickly as he gave a jerky sort of nod, gaze steady on the floorboards. “Then – then I suppose you know, now.” There was no point denying it.

“Mmm.”

“And – and do you…what do you…think?”

Crowley’s mouth felt dry. His vocabulary of six thousand years had reverted to the first desert, wiped away and replaced with dust and ashes. _Words._ Where were all the blessed words?

“What do I think?” he repeated back, because coming up with his own words was too difficult.

Slowly, the angel lifted his eyes to meet Crowley’s, and the demon was completely and utterly trapped. Moreso than he had ever been in his damned life. Aziraphale’s pink face had something steely to it, like he was preparing for a rejection. Like Crowley might react poorly to this revelation. As though there had ever been a doubt, as if a timeline existed in which this information didn’t make Crowley’s writhing mess of a heart do cartwheels.

“Yes,” Crowley breathed, soft and full of awe.

Aziraphale’s expression changed minutely, and he blinked a few times. “Yes?”

“Um. Yes.”

Now he just looked offended. “That – that doesn’t make any sense!”

In an instant, the tension snapped, and Crowley began laughing, and couldn’t seem to stop. Aziraphale giggled, which only made Crowley snort, which then made Aziraphale full-on cackle. With one stumbling stride, Crowley approached and put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders – to steady himself, possibly. Aziraphale reached out and did the same.

Aziraphale’s eyes lifted to his, shining and full of stars. “I feel I’ve rather messed this up, somehow,” he confessed with a self-conscious chuckle.

Crowley pressed his lips together against a smile. “Yes?” he replied, and Aziraphale giggled again.

“That’s still not a reply.”

“Then ask me something.”

Aziraphale shook his head, grinning. He was ridiculous, and they were both ridiculous, and everything about this was ridiculous. So, the angel lifted his chin and said, “Crowley, do you love me?”

Crowley smiled softly, a warmth in his chest building like snowdrifts of love. This was his best friend, after all. Who loved _him,_ who had always cared about him when no one else did. And hadn’t he always known? What was there to dread when he could never be safer?

“Yes,” he said again, in a whisper.

Aziraphale blinked, tears escaping in two thin lines over plump cheeks. Crowley lifted his hands from the shoulders to wipe them away with the pads of his thumbs. “I-I didn’t know how to tell you,” the angel babbled, voice thick as his hands fell to Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer. “I just – I didn’t want to mess it up, you see? And you’ve been so patient. You deserved a proper – you deserved _better_ , my dear-“

“Angel.”

“Hmm?”

“Stop talking?”

“Why, I-“

“Kiss me?”

Aziraphale blushed again, or blushed harder, rather. “You want to?”

Crowley grinned. “Is ‘yes’ your favourite word or something?”

“Well, no, I’m rather a fan of _romaunt_ ,” Aziraphale replied with a thoughtful hum, “though _sehnsucht_ is also a lovely one. And _kumbatia,_ though really, I could hardly choose one favourite amongst so many languages-“

Crowley cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Well, you did ask.”

“You’re the wor-“

Aziraphale finally kissed him, the fleeting press of lips on lips, and Crowley’s legs gave out from under him. He didn’t turn into a snake at least, but the x- and y-axes of existence seemed to shudder. Though his balance was lost, however, he did not fall, for Aziraphale caught him this time.

“Did you just _swoon_?” the angel asked, bastardly, arms wrapped around Crowley’s torso firmly but gently as he pulled him back to standing.

“No!” Crowley shook his head, eyes blown wide as he looked up at the shining joy of the angel’s smile. “I-I slipped.”

“On?”

“Er…the floor.”

“I rather think I swept you off your feet, love.”

Crowley all but collapsed at that particular weaponization of affection, brain making the screeching noises of tyres on pavement. Aziraphale took up his hand and led him over to the sofa, where Crowley found himself caught in the familiar dip of the cushion and a new one being made beside him. Crowley leaned bodily against the angel, because he was pretty sure he was allowed to do that now.

“Well, that was rubbish,” Crowley mumbled flatly, mouth mushed against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel’s body shook with suppressed laughter, and he drew his arm around Crowley’s middle again almost protectively.

“I thought it went splashingly,” he replied serenely, and completely, terribly genuine.

“No, you don’t, you liar,” Crowley replied anyway. “That was the least romantic thing that’s ever happened in the history of ever.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to figure out this ‘romance’ nonsense,” Aziraphale replied, grin audible. He wiggled happily. “Oh, just think! I could give you a love token!”

“It’s not the bloody nineteenth century anymore, angel.”

He pouted – out loud, because his angel was the biggest dork there ever was. “But I always wanted to give you one.”

Crowley pressed his entire face into Aziraphale’s arm. He grunted something like agreement, or maybe disagreement, or perhaps just acknowledgement, because that statement was just a bit much to get through his brain at the moment. Maybe he’d understand it in a decade or two.

Aziraphale sighed, but it was a happy sigh. He regarded the demon at his side with an uncontainable joy, unsure how he could ever have been nervous about this. This was Crowley, after all. His best friend, and the love of his life. There was nothing to be afraid of, with the holder of his heart at his side.

The candles in the wall sconces flickered, and the grandfather clock began ticking again.

**Author's Note:**

> Romaunt (English, from Old French): a romantic story told in verse.  
> Sehnsucht (German): yearning, wistful longing.  
> Kumbatia (Swahili): embrace.  
> Because I’m not subtle nor do I wish to be.


End file.
